


Riddles Wisely Expounded

by annhellsing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Take on Episode Four, Established Relationship with Jaskier, Eventual Romance with Geralt, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, death mentions, eventual polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annhellsing/pseuds/annhellsing
Summary: Geralt's become so used to Jaskier's love affairs that he can almost tune them out. Almost.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii│Geralt of Rivia/Reader/Jaskier│Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Comments: 21
Kudos: 249





	Riddles Wisely Expounded

**Author's Note:**

> i couldn't pick between the two of them so i opted not to decide!

He knows what a betrothal party is. The mingling, the occasional dance. It’s like he’s caught a rare species in the middle of some embarrassing ritual that they’re too foolish to be ashamed of. And he doesn’t fit in, just to add insult to injury.

Jaskier does, the man is a chameleon. All too happy to force himself into silk doublets and breeches. He walks like an idiot, regardless, but Geralt feels it’s unfair to deny that it’s a form of camouflage. 

The Witcher almost wishes he could feel stupider, so stupid as to be ignorant of how little he belongs. Perhaps he’d be more welcome were he less aware of himself. But no, he catches the angry eye of a minor lord from some backwater country and he is reminded that no matter what the state of mind, people will find ways to loathe him. 

He is human-shaped, but there will be no dancing. No touching. Their hatred is reserved for and doubled toward things that are flesh and blood. More specifically, things with flesh and blood that is unlike their own. 

This will take hours. He follows Jaskier to make it easier.

He makes his rounds, barely introduces Geralt and his selection of courtly romances seem not to want to look the frightening man in the eye.

That is, until you. Jaskier’s flourish when he tells his companion your name is less dramatic than the ones before it. He takes your hand with the same fondness he does everyone else’s, but Geralt can see that the bard’s the only one to earn your little smile and gentle look. 

But you do look at him, the Witcher stuffed into a blue doublet. You stare right back at his copper eyes and your expression changes very little. Your hand is still held in Jaskier’s, you seem overwhelmingly confident that whoever accompanies your lover is at the very least harmless. At worst, interesting. 

“Hello, Geralt,” you say. Jaskier feels your fingers tighten around his, a quick gesture of affection that makes his heart swell. He’d only introduced the other man as the Witcher, but the whole hall must have heard Mousesack’s exclamation.

Geralt stands like a mountain next to you, none of your quiet friendliness is reciprocated in the least. But he hums, he nods. 

“Are you here to keep my dear one out of trouble?” you press, hoping to take words from him. Geralt figures it’s best to get it over with. Common men don’t keep princesses waiting. 

“As a favour,” he confirms, giving Jaskier a stony glare.

“He has a terrible habit of causing it,” you tell him, your good-natured smile still warm and sweet, “trouble, I mean. So much so that one has to wonder if it’s intentional.”

“I’m standing right here,” Jaskier reminds you. But his tendency to genuine offence seems off-kilter this close to you. 

“My apologies, do sit,” you smirk at him, shifting a bit on the bench that you occupy until there is room enough for him.

Your left hand, bearing a gaudy wedding ring moves to pat the space beside you. You motion for Geralt to sit as well, cocking your head to the side instead of asking with words. He grunts and spares a glance at Jaskier, who is so wrapped up in fitting himself next to you that he does not notice.

Geralt leans against the pillar, looking out at the buzzing crowd. He didn’t come here to do anything but look menacing. 

“I’ve been meaning to write to you about my progress,” he hears you say. You’ve turned your eyes from the spectacle of a Witcher undercover to your lover. Jaskier has made himself comfortable, gripping your hand. 

“The book of my ballads, you’re still working on it?” he asks and you nod with a loving enthusiasm. To Geralt’s great surprise, you turn your head and crane your neck towards him. You seem intent on including him in the conversation.

“Some women have books of hours. But I have been recording Jaskier’s ballads so I have them all in one place,” you explain with a sunny smile. Geralt lifts an eyebrow. 

You lift Jaskier’s hand, kissing his knuckles and leaving the ghost of a lipstick print on his skin. It’s been ages since you last saw him, he knows that. It’s moments like these that make him feel terrible for straying as he has. 

“Perhaps I will make copies, there’s certainly a market for oral stories converted to text,” you tell him. He leans in to whisper something, but it’s loud enough that an onlooker could catch it. 

“Even the raunchy ones?” you shiver, in spite of yourself and shake your head. Your flirtatious smile lights up your face. 

“Only if there are pictures, sadly. And I can’t draw a line,” you giggle, a stifled, happy sound that’s like bells.

Jaskier puts his hand on top of yours, practically sheathing your fingers under his. He leans in again to whisper something else that will no doubt make you squeal. Geralt can’t help the slight twinge of envy, though he’s unsure of who he wishes he were instead.

“You make up for it with sheer enthusiasm,” Jaskier assures you. True to form, you have to stifle a laugh into his shoulder. 

But for all your coquettish attention, Geralt still finds the both of you glancing pointedly at him. And not in the way that would suggest he make himself scarce. There are some things Jaskier tells you, his lips to the shell of your ear that make you giggle. Things that even heightened senses can’t catch. This must be a form of torture.

“You must tell me,” he hears your voice but does not turn his head out of habit. If he ignores you, perhaps you will go away. “Geralt, dear?” 

You’re smiling when he looks, a bashful smile like you’re sorry to have disturbed him. But still unafraid of his wrath. He lifts an eyebrow and waits for the question. You pry yourself just a touch from your lover’s embrace so you might face him.

“You must tell me the honest truth,” you say, Geralt’s dread returns in full force, “because Jaskier never does. How accurate are his ballads? Do you relay the story to the smallest detail?” 

Over your shoulder, Jaskier gives Geralt a hard look. But he dips his head to kiss your cheek. You seem amused, but not distracted by the way he touches you. You stare at the Witcher, quietly awaiting an answer. 

He’s never liked discussing the specifics of things. Just when he thinks he’s found the right time to tell the truth, no one wants to hear it. Geralt hums and decides it’s worth trying again, if only to spoil Jaskier’s fun. 

“He makes it all up,” Geralt says, “whether I tell him the truth of what happened or not.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Jaskier’s voice is in your ear right away. His lips to your neck, “he’s the one telling lies.”

“Dear, that only encourages me,” you reply, and still you haven’t looked away from the Witcher. You’re watching his face, beaming-still and looking for none of the lies that Jaskier has warned you about.

“Thought it might,” Jaskier grumbles. He looks petulant with his chin to your shoulder. 

Perhaps you already know how full of shit some of the songs can be. Especially the ones about Witchers. Geralt exhales, the corner of his mouth quirks up at you. But only for a second. 

You’re happy for a few moments, dividing your attention between the two men in a way that surprises one of them greatly. Geralt is used to being ignored by lovers. He is more than unsettled by your fascination with him, he isn’t sure that he trusts you.

A thought occurs to him as he watches your hands, small things that they are adjusting the collar of Jaskier’s doublet. But his chance to ask is momentarily interrupted.

The queen blows in through the doors to the great hall, cutting off any questions any might have. And Jaskier’s doting attentions, much to your displeasure. He’s here to work, you remind yourself with an indulgent and sad expression. He untangles his arms from around your waist when Calanthe demands music from her minstrels.

You’re left alone with Geralt, lapsing into silence and the occasional look at where your bard stands with his lute. 

“Thank you,” you say while the lords start to preen in anticipation for their speeches.

“What for?” Geralt replies. You’ve shifted on the bench, closer to him so you can whisper below the chattering voices.

“For everything,” you reply, “this isn’t the only time you’ve helped my dear survive a night.” 

The Witcher doesn’t reply. He stares ahead, pretending to linger on certain faces or listen in on conversations. But, beside him, you keep talking. 

“And you have yet to abandon me,” you tell him with no small amount of genuine gratitude. It makes him, shift against the wall. 

“Where is your husband?” he asks, suddenly for you but not so for him, “is that what the thanks are really for? Will I need to guard Jaskier from him?” 

“There is a heath near our castle in Riverdell, ten miles south of his family’s ancestral tomb,” you say, “he didn’t like confined spaces, so I buried him there.” 

“Oh,” Geralt replies. He doesn’t want to look back at you, but to his great shame he finds himself glancing anyway. Maybe he’s looking for the lie in your face this time, but he doesn’t find it.

Your smile is gone.

Though you are not angry, not coiled by rage. You don’t hate him on principle for asking. Instead, your eyes are soft and sad. They fall to the ridiculous ring on your finger. It’s one a prince would give to his bride, in the worst way Geralt can fathom. 

“He died a year and seven months ago, just after my birthday” you say, “and when the time for celebrations came around again I did not want a party. My sister insisted I have something. Name day’s aren’t just mine, you see, they’re an excuse for everyone to be happy. So, I agreed.” 

He reminds himself he had no way of knowing. And, given Jaskier’s habits with married women, he was not encouraged to suspect an alternative story. But Geralt’s stomach still sinks when you stare at your love playing a jig at the centre of the collected musicians. You look so sad, he didn’t mean to make you that way. Needless cruelty never sits right with him.

“Jaskier was there, he sang Riddles Wisely Expounded for me. I didn’t love him right away, but I smiled,” you say, you turn to Geralt again with a heavy sigh, “that’s always how it starts.”

“Forgive me,” he says after a moment of deeply uncomfortable silence.

“You would not’ve asked if you didn’t care about Jaskier,” you reply, “and I will always understand that. There is nothing to forgive.” 

You reach for Geralt’s hand, as if to illustrate your point. Though he flinches when your fingers brush over his, he lets you put your palm against his. The two of you are silent, your thumb strokes his knuckles, applying affectionate pressure that is evidently in your nature.

He isn’t sure he likes the feeling of this, either because it’s new or because you might just be bored. Both thoughts sting, so Geralt elects to ignore them. He wishes his arm would go numb, he finds your warmth nothing short of unnerving.

“The queen is looking at you,” you tell him, “again. Like she’s very hungry.”

You let his hand go, shifting your attention away from comfort and back to gossip. Geralt will allow it. He flexes his fingers once they’re free, trying to shake that awful feeling.

“I’ve been eaten by worse,” he replies, “they always spit you back out when they’re done.”

“Be careful around her,” you whisper to him, like you’re thoroughly glad the conversation has shifted, “she’s a bit of a bully, I wouldn’t like you to get bruised.” 

“If all goes well,” he says, “I won’t be.”

All never goes well.


End file.
